


Every Breath

by killalla



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Cyberpunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killalla/pseuds/killalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese: "You there, Finch?"<br/>Finch:  "Always, Mr Reese.  Always."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Breath

2013.05.01 

Reese was three blocks from the Library when he heard the explosion. Racing through the dust and smoke amidst the rising wail of sirens, he prayed that he wouldn’t be too late.

***

He found Finch amongst the rubble of what had been the emergency stairwell. Given a few precious seconds of warning to try to get to safety, Harold had made it as far as the doorway, which had thankfully provided a bit of shelter when the building collapsed. Still, the debris had pinned him in several places, and even once freed, he remained crumpled in a small heap, his body twisted in an unnatural fashion and a widening red stain blossoming though the dark fabric of his waistcoat, as his breath came in a worryingly shallow rattle. 

John had always hoped that if it came to it, he would be the one to take a bullet for Harold. “It’s not your fault, Mr Reese.” Finch rasped, as if he could read his mind. “It wasn't something that you could have stopped.”

“Don’t talk, Finch.” He pushed aside the rising tide of panic and attempted a situational analysis. As far as the city was concerned, the Library was abandoned, and the explosion would most likely be believed to be the result a gas leak or similar. Although the fire engines were clearly on their way, emergency services would not be dispatched to a derelict building. Finch was bleeding out in front of him, and despite the risk to their security, he was going to have to call an ambulance. But before he could reach for it, his phone rang. 

“John Reese.” The voice on the other end was one that he had previously heard only in snippets, spouting series of letters and numbers amidst seeming gibberish. “In approximately one minute and thirty eight seconds, a private emergency vehicle will arrive at your location. Assist the EMT’s in getting the Admin into the vehicle. They will take you to an airfield in Long Island, where you will all board a private jet.”

“Where -” John started, but the voice continued, cutting him off. “To Switzerland, John Reese. Where else?”

***

The world whited out for a time, becoming a series of rooms and corridors, along which John trudged, accompanying Harold’s gurney. When he came to himself again he was sitting in the waiting room of a very expensive, very discreet medical clinic in Zurich. The screen across from him flickered to life with an image of Nathan Ingram.

“John. We’ve never met, but you probably know who I am. My colleague and I wanted to apologize for failing to warn you sooner. We’d sensed there was danger to you both, but our enemies are now aware of how we operate and were able to conceal the details of their attack within closed networks and behind firewalls until it was nearly too late.”

“You’re Nathan Ingram, and you’ve been resurrected somehow. You’re also working with The Machine.” A sudden thought occurred. “Finch. Can you save him the same way?”

The face on the screen nodded. “You catch on pretty quick, John. But the thing is, I’m not actually Nathan Ingram – I’m a computer program that thinks he’s Nathan Ingram. Our technology, although improving, is not yet at the level that we can fully capture a human mind, or dare I say it, a soul.” In the monitor, the image of Nathan paused. “The good news is that Harold isn’t facing that situation quite yet. We can maintain him on life support for an extended but indefinite period while we work to improve the recording process. ”

Reese remembered the shattered form that he’d helped to lift onto the stretcher. “He won’t walk again, though.” 

“Considering the amount we had to do to stabilize him, he won’t leave this facility again. He’ll be conscious, but essentially paralyzed, and able to communicate only in an extremely limited fashion. As you’re the closest thing Harold has to a living next of kin, we thought you should decide on our next course of action.” Finch alive, but locked in, a prisoner in his own body. Reese wasn’t sure that he would have wanted that. “Before you decide though, we also wanted to let you know that there is another option. It would require some initial discomfort and an ongoing commitment on your part…”

“I’ll do it.” Anything. He would do anything. There was no real need to ask.

“I figured you’d say that.” Nathan grinned. “Hell, with what I know about him, and what I know about you, you might even enjoy it.” 

2033.05.01

All over Uganda, phones were ringing. Text messages and IM’s were popping up across screens, and individuals, (many of whom had at one point been helped or saved by mysterious strangers obeying a voice at the other end of a telephone line) were now following their own instructions to send commands, deliver messages, or gather at particular locations. Some, with military or other special skills were converging on State House, the former Presidential residence. 

Much of this information was simultaneously being relayed via wireless internet to the tall man sitting at the wheel of a Jeep at Entebbe airport. Over the years, Reese’s hair had gone completely white, and he walked with a slight limp (the souvenir of a particularly difficult operation in Khartoum), which necessitated the occasional use of a cane and recommended that he retain vehicle access wherever possible. He had flown in dark last night, however, because he had insisted in overseeing this particular mission from the ground.

“Control, we have secured the perimeter and are ready to move out.” A burst of static crackled across the edges of the message.

“Acknowledged. Wait for my signal.” Reese toggled the earpiece to pause his transmission. “Finch, you ready?” he murmured.

“Mr Reese, I’ve told you many times that there’s no longer any need to speak aloud - you can sub-vocalise and I will “hear” you perfectly well.” Finch chuckled, his voice warm and rich, and for a second John could see him with his mind’s eye, sitting in the Library before his many screens, just as he’d used to, still impeccably dressed in a tailored three piece suit.

“It’s all right, Finch, I’ve still got the earpiece in, so nobody will think I’m talking to myself. Not that it matters if I do.” Reese shut his eyes and took a deep breath. 

It had been twenty years since the surgeons, acting at the direction of The Machine and the Nathan Ingram construct, put a nanochip and wires in his head, establishing a permanent link between Finch and himself. Twenty years, during which Finch’s brain state was recorded, transferred and preserved. He was doubtless backed up on a massive mainframe somewhere, but he existed as much in Reese’s mind as he did anywhere, these days. 

Twenty years of sleeping and waking together, sharing every moment, every breath, closer than lovers. John had experienced an instant of sheer terror the first time Finch had taken control of their body, but then he realized that he’d seen himself as Finch’s vassal, his weapon, from the very beginning, and it was in a sense only natural that he would now become Harold's literal vessel, the extension of his will. The increased and inescapable physical intimacy had resulted in some interesting implications for their personal relationship, as well. 

“Open your eyes, John, and give me your left hand.” He opened his eyes to a brilliant display of numbers, lines of code spilling across his artificial corneas, as his hand rose seemingly of its own accord and began to tap out a series of commands on a small keypad integrated into the dashbord of the Jeep. The numbers faded from view. “Aurora confirms that our satellite grid is in position.” Finch’s voice again, in his ear, in his mind. “We’re ready.”

“All units, this is Control. On my mark. Execute.” Reese raised his eyes to the horizon amidst the distant roar of engines as the sky was split by electrical fire. 

“And Mr Reese? Do show some care for your personal safety during this operation. You’re not getting any younger.” Finch had revered to formality, but the teasing lilt to this voice was still there.

“Don’t worry, Finch – I’ve got this.” And these last words he did sub-vocalize, a whisper under his breath. “Ever since Zurich, I’ve had something to protect.”

***

Governments of the world, you are being watched. We have a system, a machine that spies on you, every hour of every day. I know, because I built it. My own government tried to destroy me and my partner as a result. They failed. Now, hunted by authorities across the globe, we work in secret. You will never find us, for we are legion. But engage in corruption, oppression or genocide - then your number is up, and we’ll find you.

**Author's Note:**

> The millieu for this story borrows heavily on the style and setting of William Gibson's Sprawl trilogy. Also, I have used a bit of fanon suggested by astolat, in that The Machine, being codenamed Northern Lights, would eventually take on the name of Aurora.


End file.
